


Like Water Through A Stone

by Butterbeerandbutterknives



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depressed Dean Winchester, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Protective Bobby Singer, Season/Series 02, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterbeerandbutterknives/pseuds/Butterbeerandbutterknives
Summary: Bobby tells himself not to worry at first, trying to convince himself Dean has merely come from somewhere up north, where the weather fit the season better. The second and third days he tells himself the kid just doesn’t have any clean short-sleeved shirts.The fourth day is when Bobby can’t delude himself further.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 97





	Like Water Through A Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning- This fic centers around the concept of Dean as someone struggling with self-harm. Please do not read if it might trigger you. Spoilers through 2x15.

Bobby’s not sure when he notices it first. Looking back, he can kick himself for not realizing the insidious connotation that followed how quickly he went through bandages when the Winchesters were over, or not seeing how carefully Dean would scrub the guest bathroom before leaving whenever his Dad returned from a hunt, but truth be told, none of those incidents alone were quite enough to let him figure out what was going on with the eldest son. It isn’t until Dean is sixteen and high off the euphoria of a successful salt and burn that Bobby had the thought of _good, don’t have to worry about him slitting his wrists tonight_.

The thought is shocking, but not as much as it should be. Instead of worrying, he smiled and lets Dean have a beer, relaxing when he gets a _thanks, Uncle Bobby, you’re the best!_ He resolves himself to always be the lighthouse to the boys, guiding them home whenever they’ve spent too much time at sea, and pours himself an extra finger of bourbon that night. The next day, when John leaves with the boys in tow, Bobby finds himself hugging Dean a little bit longer than usual, and if the kid notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He goes to the wall of phones later that night, and next to FDA, FBI, CDC, and a cacophony of other acronyms, he adds one more landline, simply labeled _Boys._

* * *

He hears of Sam’s exit to Stanford from the boy himself, when the kid calls him on a greyhound bus to Palo Alto. The phone labeled _Boys_ had rung after dark, and so Bobby picks up frantically on the second ring, though his voice sounded casual. Sam cries with relief, then with guilt as he begs Bobby to check on Dean regularly. He talks the kid down, assures him that Dean will be okay, and wonders exactly how much the kid knows about his older brother’s head. John Winchester shows up a week after that, re-reads everything Bobby has on demons, and then leaves without so much as a goodbye. He’s not surprised; of course, the man saw Sam as another victim of the demon with yellow eyes, instead of the product of John Winchester himself.

It takes Dean two more weeks to show up, and when he does, Bobby doesn’t know whether to be relieved or scared shitless.

* * *

It’s the middle of September and instead of fall weather and fresh apples, Bobby’s been running the AC and dreaming of bourbon straight from the freezer. The mercury has hit 90 for the past three days, with no sign of dropping. He’d looked into possible supernatural influence when it began, but quickly came to the same realization as every other person in South Dakota: they were having a heatwave.

Rumsfeld doesn’t bother moving when the Impala pulled into the drive, merely giving a half-hearted bark from his post next to the refrigerator.

And then Dean walks in wearing long sleeves.

Bobby tells himself not to worry at first, trying to convince himself Dean has merely come from somewhere up north, where the weather fit the season better. The second and third days he tells himself the kid just doesn’t have any clean short-sleeved shirts.

The fourth day is when Bobby can’t delude himself further.

The AC has broke once again, and he’s out fixing it with a bitchy Dean as his only company. They’re shooting the shit mostly, but Dean is dripping more and more sweat until he starts to green around the gills at half past noon.

“You feelin’ okay?” He asks worriedly.

“I’m-“ Dean pales suddenly, and swallows harshly.

Bobby sighs as the younger man bolds to the nearest bush with a hand clamped over his mouth. “Idjit.” He scolds, though there’s no venom in his voice. “Let’s get you inside and cooled off.” 

He presses a hand to Dean’s forehead and finds he’s clammy with sweat. “m fine.” Dean protests.

“And I’m the queen of England.”

Bobby helps his surrogate son into the bathroom, depositing him on the cool tile while Dean barfs again. “The fuck is it so hot for?” He whines.

“Wouldn’t be if you didn’t wear all those layers.” Bobby says, eyeing Dean’s flannel with disgust.

Dean pauses, hovering midair above the toilet with apprehension Bobby knows isn’t just due to the nausea. “Didn’t want to get a sunburn.” He lies.

Bobby stills, unsure of whether to push the topic now or later. He settles for turning on the tap while plugging the tub. “I’ll go get you a glass of water.” He offers. “Then you’re taking a cool bath while I finish fixing the AC.”

Dean nods, knowing he’s to do as he’s told.

When Bobby returns, Dean’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, looking exhausted. The kid takes his boots off, then socks, and even slips out of his jeans so he’s sitting just in boxers and the same long-sleeved shirt. “I’m not going to pass out.” Dean reassures. “You can go now.”

Bobby nods. “I’ll be done soon.”

_Coward,_ he tells himself, not able to look Dean in the eyes until dinnertime, where he eyes the fresh streak of red dotted on Dean’s flannel.

When he retreats that night, climbing the stairs, he can’t help but feel like Dean is still at sea, even under the one roof the kid should be able to find solace in.

* * *

Bobby lies awake until two that morning, when he dresses, baseball cap and all, and enters Dean’s room without so much as knocking.

The younger hunter is still in the night-owl faze of night, sitting idly on the couch with a beer in his hand and a book in his hand.

“Bobby?” He asks, knowing the older hunter went to bed hours ago.

“I want your razor.” Bobby blurts out. “Or knife, or machete, or whatever in gods name you use to…” He gestures at the boy, unable to even say it.

Dean freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lies, voice hollow.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He doesn’t know what he expected. Anger, maybe, more denial. Hell, Bobby was half expecting the kid to cry.

Instead, Dean just nods and grabs a pocketknife with a silver blade from his pocket. “Here you are.”

Bobby takes it gingerly, suddenly terrified of the weapon for no reason other than the fact that it had hurt his Dean. He nods. “You’ll be wearing short sleeves at breakfast tomorrow.” He instructs.

Dean exhales. “Yes, sir.”

There’s something in the tone that doesn’t sit right with the elder hunter. “I’m not mad at you, Dean.”

The kid nods, and Bobby ruffles his hair like he used to when the boys were little.

“Get some sleep.”

Dean stays for a week, and true to his words he only wears short sleeves. Bobby watches, but there are no fresh red marks to break up the white scars while Dean’s home, so he doesn’t say anything else on the subject. John calls soon after, tells Dean there’s a werewolf in Arizona he can’t take care of himself, and Dean heads out without so much as a hesitation.

“Don’t make me wait too long for your next visit.” Bobby warns. “I got a Chevy Tahoe I need your help with.”

Dean nods. “Thank you.”

And Bobby knows he’s not just talking about the sandwiches he packed him.

* * *

It’s part of the routine, from then on. Dean drives to Bobby’s, Bobby gives him a beer laced with holy water, and Dean leaves his jacket at the door. Then one day, John doesn’t pick up, and Dean drives to meet Sam. Even after John dies, the boys have each other, so Bobby isn’t too worried when he doesn’t see them until they need his help with a trickster. After it’s dead, they go out to a diner, like a caricature of a family, a scowling old man and two grown kids who aren’t even his own. He takes Sam up on the courtesy offer of another beer at their motel room, and when Dean’s kicked his shoes off, he addresses the elephant that’s been stampeding through his mind.

“Alright Paul Bunyan.” He tells Dean. “Take er’ off.”

Sam frowns, and Dean freezes from his position of fetching beer from the minifridge. “What are you talking about?” Sam asks.

“It’s nothing.” Dean insists, standing up straight. “Just a joke.”

Bobby’s eyes float between the two sons and weighs his options before continuing. “Balls.”

Dean’s eyes are pleading Bobby to quiet, but Sam’s are begging him to continue and suddenly the only image Bobby can conjure in his mind is that of the red railroad tracks that crisscrossed Dean’s arms each and every time he visited him.

“Dean.” Sam asks, voice careful. “What are you two talking about?”

Bobby thinks of the two deep, vertical wounds Dean sported after his Twenty-Third birthday passed and his baby brother didn’t call. He thinks of what might happen when Christmas comes and there’s no phone call from John full of muttered complaints of closed bars and subpar Chinese food. “Dean needs to take his flannel off.” Bobby says, watching as the panic overtakes the older boy’s face. “So I can see if he’s been cutting again.”

And with that, Dean bolts out the door.

Sam goes to chase his brother, but Bobby’s hand on his shoulder hold him back.

“He’ll be okay.” He reassures. “Give ‘im some time to process.”

Sam nods, sitting down on the motel bed with shaky knees. His long legs curl nervously against his chest, and for a moment, Bobby isn’t seeing Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire. He’s seeing Sammy, a kid scared for his older brother. “How long has he been doing it?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby replies. It’s not the answer Sam wants, but it’s the only honest one he has. “It got bad when you left for Stanford. I figured you knew.”

Sam exhales shakily. “I should have noticed it.”

Bobby shakes his head. “No use beating yourself up over it.”

“We’re together 24/7, Bobby.” Sam insists. “And until you pointed it out I hadn’t realized I haven’t seen Dean in short sleeves in over a decade.”

“I’ll go check on your brother.” Bobby says, standing up slowly, unsure of what else he could add. “I doubt he went very far.”

Sam nods, and the older hunter heads into the parking lot, relaxing a bit when he sees the impala is still parked, Dean sitting in the driver’s seat. Opening the door and sliding in, Dean’s voice is hollow as he greets Bobby. “I can’t believe you told him.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t.”

Dean stares at his hands. “What exactly would I have said? _Hey Sammy, I know your girlfriend just burned to death and all, but I’d like to take a moment to tell you how fucked up I am in the head._ ” He shakes his head. “Or better yet, _Hey Sammy, I know dad just died, but do you mind making sure I don’t slit my wrists next time I shower?”_

“Could’ve told him the truth.” Bobby suggests. “You could have told him you struggle sometimes. Wouldn’t’ve even needed words for that. Especially now.”

_Especially now that Dad’s gone_ Dean thinks as he leans his head forward until it rests on the steering wheel. “I haven’t stopped, Bobby.” He admits. “Never did. It was so bad when Sam left for Stanford that I convinced myself maybe once I had him back I’d quit, but…”

“You’re addicted.” Bobby tells him. “Plain and simple. An alcoholic doesn’t stop drinking just because the sun is shining.” 

Dean sighs. “You know I don’t only cut on my arms, right?”

“I know.” Bobby replies. “But I also know that’s where you cut when things get real bad. I know I can count on your wrists to tell me the truth about what’s in your head when al I get is avoidance from your mouth.”

Dean moves to take off his flannel, but Bobby shakes his head. “What?” The younger man asks.

“You should do that in front of Sam.” Bobby suggested. 

Dean stares at his hands, suddenly wishing he were anywhere else. “I suppose you’re right.”

They walk silently back to the motel room, and Sam stands up to grasp Dean in a hug the second he’s crossed the threshold. Dean wants to squirm, to protest the moment with a brusque dismissal of it as a chick flick moment, but he knows his brother needs this.

After, he pulls back and wordlessly yanks his outer shirt off.

“Jesus.” Sam hisses.

Not an inch of flesh is unmarred- the scar tissue is deep, with a white, stretched appearance coating the insides of his forearms, with a handful of bright red cuts in various stages of healing forming awful shapes akin to grotesque constellations.

Bobby nods. “Looking good.” He compliments. It’s not sarcastic- the number of fresh cuts barely hits the double digits, and nothing looks infected. There’s one that’s deep, but it was hastily stitched (clearly by Dean himself) and looks well on the way to healing.

Dean shrugs on his shirt and pulls out a trio of beers.

“Why would you hide this?” Sam asks.

Dean pops the top off his beer. “Take a guess.”

Sam frowns, turning to glare at Bobby. “And you didn’t think to tell me this after Dad died? Didn’t think I needed to know so I could keep Dean safe?”

“Don’t drag me into this.” Bobby warns. “I thought you knew Sam, honestly I did. Besides, I was so goddam relieved when he took a crowbar to the impala. Thought maybe it was the start of something better. New coping skill or some shit.”

“Coping skill.” Dean squawks. “What am I, a teenager?”

“Girl, interrupted more like.” Sam scoffed.

Dean’s eyes darkened. “Listen.” He growls. “Because I’m only going to say this once.” He takes a swig of beer, hoping for confidence. “This life… it breeds darkness. You saw it in dad when he drank, hell, you’ve probably felt it yourself.” Finishing the beer, he slams the empty bottle onto the table with more force than necessary. “This quiets that darkness enough that I still get out of bed in the morning. It ain’t normal, but nothing about our lives is. I have it under control.”

Bobby fiddles with his beer. He knows what Dean means- hell, it was the entire reason he’d never so much as touched the topic of Dean stopping with the kid. It was a vice, a stupid, dangerous one that was going to kill him if he wasn’t careful, but he didn’t know how Dean would cope without it, and he was too much of a coward to want to find out.

Something in Sam deflated. “Just…” He was unsure of what to say. “Just wear short sleeves to bed, okay? Just so I can keep an eye on you.”

“Sam…” Dean trails off. “I don’t think this is something you can guilt me into. I won’t stop just because you know or can see.”

“I know.” Sam replies. “Just do that for me, so I know to step in if you start going too Edward Scissorhands on yourself, okay? Short sleeves to bed, that’s the only thing I’m asking.” He looks to Bobby for reassurance that he’s doing the right thing.

Dean nods. “Short sleeves to bed.”

Bobby sighs, relieved Dean has another lighthouse to call him home.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are struggling with self-harm, please get help. I have been clean for years, and recovery is possible, my friends. Do I still have that temptation at times? Of course I do. But I can handle it in other ways, from walking to painting to forcing a fictional character to experience what I went through.  
> Also, I'm tentatively considering turning this into a verse once I'm finished with my current WIP- any requests to potential future interactions/ timestamps?  
> Have a lovely day and always keep fighting, - Skye.


End file.
